“May I help you?” she asked in a tone that indicated
she’d rather stuff her visitor into the recycling bin that
sat next to the desk.
Judith froze. The fib she’d been trying to conjure up
still hadn’t materialized. Briefly, she closed her eyes.
Angela’s pale face and tall, voluptuous figure floated
before her. The well-defined features, the wide shoulders, the above-average height, the dark eyes, the
blond hair that was undoubtedly colored by an expensive Beverly Hills stylist . . .
Inspiration struck. There was a physical resemblance as long as no one looked too closely. “I’m here
to see my daughter.” Judith leaned forward, striking a
conspiratorial pose. “I don’t know what name she’s
using, but to her adoring fans, she’s . . . Dare I say it?”
“Say what?” the woman snapped.
Judith glanced at the name tag on the blue smock.
“Perhaps you aren’t aware of her real identity, Wanda.
My daughter was brought in today with . . .” She
feigned embarrassment. “A drug reaction.”
Wanda’s expression went from unpleasant to sour.
“Oh, yes. One of those.” She scowled at Judith, no
doubt blaming her for the daughter’s decadence. “May
I see some ID?”
Momentarily flustered, Judith tried to come up with
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263
another tall tale. “Her father and I,” she began, fumbling for her wallet, “were only married for—”
The phone rang on the desk. Wanda held up a hand
for Judith to be silent. After tersely answering some
questions regarding the status of another patient, the
aide hung up.
“Let’s see that ID,” she ordered. “I don’t need your
life story.”
Judith handed over the wallet with her driver’s license. Wanda gave it a piercing look, then nodded.
“Miss Flynn is in Room 704, back down the hall and
on your left.”
With a gulp, Judith nodded and hurried off before
Wanda noticed her astonishment at the coincidence.
The door to Room 704 was closed. Judith knocked
in a tentative fashion, but when no one responded, she
slowly opened the door. Except for the green and red
lights on the various monitors, the room was dark.
Nearing the bed, Judith saw that Angela was on her
side, turned away from the door. The IVs that trailed
from her left hand looked all too familiar.
Judith thought she was asleep. But the actress must
have heard someone approach. “What now?” she
asked in a disgruntled, if subdued voice.
“It’s Judith Flynn.”
“Who?” Angela didn’t bother to move.
“Judith Flynn, your innkeeper at the B&B. How are
you?”
“Awful,” Angela replied, still not moving. “What do
you want?”
Judith sat down in the molded plastic visitor’s chair.
“You’re my guest. Naturally I’m concerned.”
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Mary Daheim
“Bull,” Angela muttered. “You’re here to pry. Why
should you be concerned? Are you afraid I’m going to
peg out like Bruno did?”
“Of course not,” Judith said a bit testily. “I’m genuinely concerned about your welfare. You gave us an
awful scare today.” She paused, waiting for a response.
There was none, except for a restless flutter of the
young woman’s hands at the top of the bedsheet. “I
also wanted to know,” Judith continued, her voice a bit
stern, “why you used my name when you checked into
the hospital.”
“I didn’t use it,” Angela said querulously. “Dirk
checked me in. Or somebody. I was out of it.”
“But why Flynn?” Judith persisted.
At last Angela turned to look at her visitor, though
the movement made her wince. “Why? Because it’s
my name, dammit. You don’t really think I was born
Angela La Belle?”
“Ah . . .” Judith hadn’t considered this possibility. “I
see. I’m sorry I was impertinent. That is, I didn’t mind
you using my name, I just thought it was . . . odd.”
“It’s not odd,” Angela insisted, her voice a trifle
stronger. “I was born Portulaca Purslane Flynn. My
names just like my mother dumped me when I was
two. Now how about getting out of here? My head
hurts like hell.”
“Shall I ring for the nurse to bring you more pain
medication?” Judith offered.
“Are you kidding? These sadists are afraid I’ll get
addicted to aspirin.”
“I’m sorry, really I am,” Judith said. “I was in the
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265
hospital last January. I know how difficult the medical
profession can be when it comes to administering
painkillers.”
“Don’t be cute,” Angela snapped. “You know
damned well why they won’t give me anything. I’m a
coke hound. Now beat it, will you?”
“Of course,” Judith said, standing up. “Really, I feel
so sorry for you. Is it possible that you could kick the
habit if you went into rehab?”
Angela scowled at Judith. “The goody-goody side
of the Quick Fix, huh? Easier said than done, Mrs.
Flynn.” Suddenly her eyes widened. “Where are you
from?”
Judith was taken aback. “You mean . . . where was I
born?”
“Yes. Where? When?” The queries crackled like
scattershot.
“I was born right here,” Judith replied, “about two
blocks away, in a hospital that’s been turned into condos. Why do you ask?”
“Are you sure?”
“Certainly I’m sure,” Judith answered, indignant.
Then, seeing the disappointment on Angela’s face, she
understood the reason for the questions. “I’m sorry.
I’ve only had one child, a boy. And I didn’t become
Mrs. Flynn until ten years ago.”
Wearily, Angela turned away. “Never mind. I keep
hoping someday I’ll find my mother.”
Even when she wasn’t wanted, Judith was too softhearted to walk away. She remained standing, gazing
down at Angela’s blond hair and twitching hands.
“Do you want to meet your mother for revenge,” Judith asked softly, “or for an explanation?”
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Mary Daheim
Angela didn’t respond immediately. Indeed, her
whole body convulsed, then went slack. “I know why
she gave me away,” the actress finally replied, her
voice muffled by the pillow. “She never really wanted
me. My mother was a free spirit, a big-time flower
child. I was just a burden in her personal revolution.”
“Your mother sounds selfish and immature,” Judith
declared. “Who raised you?”
“An aunt in San Bernardino,” Angela said. “She meant
well, but she had four kids of her own. I was much
younger than they were. I was always the outsider.”
Abruptly, she turned again to face Judith. “This is
none of
your business. Quit asking so damned many questions.”
“I apologize,” Judith said. “I can’t help myself. I’m
interested in people. I care about them.”
“You’re an oddity, then,” Angela said. “Most people
only care in terms of what they can get from you. The
funny thing is, my mother didn’t want anything from
me. She didn’t want me, period.”
“She may be a villain,” Judith said quietly, “but
she’s not the one who hooked you on drugs. Who did?”
Angela gaped at Judith. “What a rotten, snoopy
question!”
“No, it isn’t,” Judith said reasonably. “Addicts have
to start somewhere, and usually because someone
coaxed or goaded them into it. You don’t just walk into
the supermarket and get cocaine on Aisle B.”
“Why do you care?” Angela’s voice was toneless.
“It’s abnormal.”
“I guess,” Judith said, “I’m one of those rare people
who do care. I must be eccentric. Humor me.”
Angela heaved a deep, shuddering sigh. “Why not?
It doesn’t matter now. It was good old Bruno.”
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267
Judith was surprised. “Bruno? Did he do drugs?”
“For years,” Angela said, “right up until he overdosed midway through the making of The Gasman.”
“Is that why he was hospitalized?” Judith asked, remembering Vito’s medical notes including the letter C.
For cocaine, apparently.
“That’s right,” Angela said with a bitter note. “It
scared him, so he went into rehab. He’s been clean ever
since. Lucky him.”
“Not so lucky since he’s dead,” Judith remarked.
“You say he’d been an addict for years?”
“Yes.” Angela looked bitter. “Some people can
function forever on coke. Bruno thought so. I did, too.
Maybe I still do. As Bruno told me, coke can enhance
the creative process. He truly believed it did for him.”
Maybe, Judith thought, that explained The Gasman
disaster. “It’s more like Russian roulette,” she asserted.
“Eventually, you’re going to reach the chamber that
takes you out.”
“Sure, sure. Easy for you to say.” Angela made a
face at her.
“So who got Bruno hooked?” Judith inquired.
Angela shook her head. “You’re not going to get me
to tell you about that.”
“But Bruno’s dead,” Judith said as she heard the
faint sound of the doorknob turning. A nurse no doubt,
coming to take the endless vital signs. “What difference does it make?”
“Because the person who got him started is still
alive,” Angela said. “And if you ask me, very dangerous. You don’t want to know.”
But Judith did want to know. Despite the odds, even
the risks, she had to know.
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Mary Daheim
Yet she could get nothing more out of Angela. And
to be fair, the young woman seemed not only agitated,
but tired. Judith was heading out of the room when another click sounded at the door. She waited for the person in the corridor to come in.
But no one did, and when she turned the knob she
discovered that the door was firmly shut.
SEVENTEEN
SLOWLY, SHE OPENED the door and peered into the
hallway. A pair of orderlies had their heads together
by the elevators. Wanda was sitting at the reception
desk. A doctor in scrubs was talking to a nurse at the
far end of the corridor. None of them seemed interested in Room 704.
But someone was. As she’d turned the knob to
open the door a few inches, she’d heard footsteps
close by. Not the soft, almost noiseless tread of
shoes worn by members of the medical profession,
but high heels. Tap-tap-tap. They’d stopped
abruptly just as Judith had looked into the corridor.
The door on the right of Angela’s room was open.
Moving as silently as possible, Judith looked inside. It
was dark, but she could tell that the single bed was
empty. On a whim, she opened the bathroom door and
flicked on the light. Nothing. Leaving the light on and
the bathroom door open, she went to the closet. Nothing there, either. But just as she was closing the closet
door, she heard the tap-tap-tapping again. Quickly
switching off the bathroom light, she hurried into the
corridor. The tableau remained the same, except that
the orderlies by the elevators had gone.
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Mary Daheim
Judith walked softly to Room 702, on the other side
of Angela’s private room. There a light glowed above
the bed, where an old man with paper-thin skin
breathed with noisy effort. Judith gave up. She
couldn’t search every room. Besides, she reasoned, the
high heels might have belonged to a visitor who had
tried to get into the wrong room.
But she didn’t quite believe it. Feeling defeated, she
headed for the elevators. There was one good thing
about her visit, though. As she exited on the main floor,
Judith felt a sense of freedom at leaving the hospital
under her own power. It hadn’t been that way when she
exited Good Cheer on a cold day in January. She’d
been wheeled out to a cabulance and had spent the following week learning to walk again.
Fifteen minutes later she was back at Hillside Manor.
Joe was sitting in the living room, studying Bill’s chart.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I
was about to file a missing-persons report.”
Judith explained everything except the hospital
visit. She had a question of her own that wouldn’t wait.
“What about Mother? It’s eight o’clock. She must be
starving.”
“Your mother is fine,” Joe replied. “Arlene brought
her dinner over a couple of hours ago. It seems that
none of the Rankers clan showed up. Arlene was furious—right up until she insisted she hadn’t wanted to
see any of them in the first place.”
“Dear Arlene.” Judith sighed, collapsing next to Joe
on the sofa. “A sea of contradictions. And a heart as big
as Alaska.”
“So what good did all your sleuthing at Capri’s do
for you?” Joe asked, putting Bill’s chart aside.
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271
“I’m not sure,” Judith said, suddenly hearing her
stomach growl. “Goodness, I haven’t eaten in hours.
What’s left from the caterers?”
Joe peered at her. “You look beat. Let me fix you a
drink and bring you something to eat. How about
Winifred’s field greens and Chips’s chicken pot pie?”
“Sounds wonderful,” Judith said, slipping out of her
shoes as Sweetums crept up to the sofa. “I should see
Mother, but I’ll wait until I get my second wind.”
Joe had gone into the kitchen when the doorbell
sounded a minute later. Wearily, Judith trudged to the
front door. Eugenia Fleming and Morris Mayne stood
on the front porch with three small trick-or-treaters.
The youngsters, who
had an adult waiting on the sidewalk, chorused their Halloween greeting. Eugenia
practically trampled them as she entered the house.
“It’s very damp out there,” she complained. “Did
Vito mention that he and I and Morris are staying in
your vacant rooms tonight?”
“I’m . . . not . . . sure,” Judith replied, scooping
candy bars out of a cut-glass bowl in the entry hall. She
stepped aside as Morris barged his way inside. Judith
scowled at him, then addressed the children. “Two
ghosts and a witch,” she said, dropping two chocolate
bars into each of the three pillowcases. “Very scary.
Don’t get a tummy ache.”
The children said thank you with varying degrees of
confidence, then turned around and ran off to join their
adult companion. Judith managed to flag down Eugenia before she reached the second landing of the main
staircase.
“Excuse me,” Judith said, “but the rooms aren’t
made up yet. It’s been a very busy day. Besides, there’s
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Mary Daheim
only one vacant room. Bruno’s,” she added, lowering
her voice. “We’ll have to see if Ellie or Winifred or
Chips or Dade will consent to share a room.”
“Chips and Dade wouldn’t share a bomb shelter if
a nuclear device went off,” Eugenia retorted. “You
might have better luck with Win and Ellie. Just tell
me which room is mine. I need to lie down. I’m quite
fatigued.”
Judith was forced into a quick decision. “Morris
will stay in Room Three. You take Room Six. I’ll make
it up as soon as I have something to eat.”
Eugenia leaned over the banister, her bust looming
like two large water balloons. “Now would be preferable.”
Judith was about to snap back when Joe appeared in
the entry hall bearing a tray with a Scotch rocks, a
steaming chicken pot pie, a generous salad, and a hot
roll.
“Take a seat, Jude-girl,” he said as the doorbell rang
again. “Dinner is served.”
Judith shot Eugenia a frigid look and returned to the
living room. Morris Mayne was reclining on the sofa,
his shirt and tie loosened and his suit jacket covering
the coffee table.
Joe stared down at the publicist. “Get the door, will
you, Morris? And move that jacket. My wife’s dinner
is going there.”
Morris looked affronted. “Pardon? I’m a guest, not
a servant.”